WHEN the name of the “The Lews” is mentioned, it
rarely calls up any distinct idea in the minds of the public. A
“peat floating in the Atlantic,” it has been left outside, and,
until lately, no one has held out a helping hand to draw it within
our ken.

Since our first papers were printed, the West —our
West—has been invaded by a charmed pen, and Sheila and Mairi,
redolent of peat and heather, yet fresh as the Hebridean breezes,
have been cajoled into saying “And are you ferry well?” to their
southern neighbours. “And it’s me that’s glad” that they had a trip
“whatever,” for they don’t see much company, and they have done us
all good, and we are all “ferry proud and happy ” to have met the
Princess of Thule.

In the following pages we shall not attempt to
introduce our readers to dames of high degree, but endeavour to show
how the subjects of the Princess manage to exist.

As we have recently had particular opportunities of
living among the cotters and fishermen in the most unfrequented
district, and enjoyed the most intimate and friendly relations with
all classes of the community, the result of our observations may not
be uninteresting to the public.

Those questions most important to the sportsman have
been recently so well handled by “ Sixty-one ” (Mr. Hutchison) that
we shall confine ourselves principally to subjects of general
interest. Men and manners in a barren land and a boisterous climate
are surely worthy of at least a passing glance. The fact that they
exist in happiness and comparative comfort, notwithstanding the
gloomy aspect of nature, and hug their saturated peat moss as
affectionately as if the sun of Italy were over them, and its
fertile soil beneath, may point a moral to the growling multitude,
surging impatiently amid “a' the comforts o’ the Saut-market.”

Let us suppose there has been a good year for
potatoes, what a work there is for the clergyman ! The whole
country-side is marrying, and giving in marriage. In the year '71,
not an unmarried girl over eighteen was left in Shaddar, and
everywhere else it was on the same scale. The potato crop did it.
But before a Lews young man can hope to make a good matrimonial
bargain he must go to the Wick fishing. Once he has proved his
manhood by bringing back a few pounds from the everlasting Northern
herring harvest, he can calmly look around for the girl that can
carry the biggest creel of peat across the moor, or the heaviest
creel of seaweed from the beach. Let him add to this a scrap of a
lot from the laird, or from the lot of his father, and as soon as he
has knocked up a hut, he is a remarkably marriageable young man.

Formerly the cotters were much better off, in a way,
than at present; seeing they had considerable-sized lots, where,
with the labour of their families and the manure supplied by their
cattle and the sea, they could raise enough to keep themselves in
abundance, if not in luxury. But now population has increased to
such an extent, without any proportionate increase in land allotted
to them, and the lots have been so divided and subdivided, by the
cotters themselves giving portions to their marrying sons or
daughters, that few indeed now raise enough for their own
necessities. They are thus forced to purchase meal or potatoes at
the dearest season and in the dearest market.

It is a serious consideration whether the proprietor
ought not to divide among these hordes some of the unlimited moor
close by, or whether necessity will force them to emigrate, the
solution hoped for by the laird, we fear in vain.

The erection of a dwelling-place, into which he may
lead his partner in life, is not a very serious matter to a Lews
man. No great skill is required, and little expense in materials,
except for a few planks. The stones, everywhere abundant—for all
through the West the rocks crop out amid the peat—are brought
together, and two rude walls built, one within the other, all round.
The interval between these two walls, always several feet, sometimes
many, is filled up with earth and gravel, so as to form one broad
outer wall, only one door being considered necessary. Upon this wall
the roof is raised on a framework of old oars and odd scraps of
drift and other wood, an occasional sound plank giving stability;
these are again covered over with “ divots,” or large turfs, closely
covering it, and these once more are thatched over. The edge of the
roof falls on the inner corner of the outer wall, so as to leave a
broad top to the main wall all round. This soon collects grass and
plants, and is a favourite promenade for the sheep of the
establishment, as well as dogs and children. These latter are the
least tended, as being the least valuable animals about the clachan.
They may often be seen chasing various quadrupeds off these raised
promenades, the luxuriant green growth generally to be seen there in
the summer proving a strong temptation to the stock. Often the outer
wall is built of turfs; and even when of stone, skill in masonry not
being general, a bank is thrown against it as an additional support.
Various explanations have been attempted of this peculiar Hebridean
mode of erecting huts, such as want of wood to stretch the roof over
the whole so as to form eaves, a former state of great cold
demanding thick walls, want of constructive knowledge, and so on. It
seems to us natural, that thick walls should be thus erected by
those without constructive ability, even although they had the
knowledge; and that the houses are built in the most natural mode to
resist severe winds, which are well known to sweep over this “
ultima Thule ” with unrestrained violence.

We thus find the Esquimaux in Greenland building
similar dwellings, doubtless for similar reasons. They are thus
described. “The walls are all built alike, six feet high and four
feet thick, of stones and turf. There is a roof of rough timbers and
boards; then the whole, roof and walls, are covered with heavy sods,
which grow green, and convert the hut into a sort of mound.’'

A thin unmortared wall could offer no resistance to
cold blasts driven with the force of all the furies; and if a young
Benedict were to build an eaved dwelling with his limited and
imperfect materials, the roof some rough night might take French
leave, and go dancing across the hills.

On the top of the thatched dwelling, whence the smoke
finds an exit, the colony of fowls belonging to the house finds
warmth and a congenial roost. This artificial heat is said to make
them lay much more readily than they would otherwise do. It supplies
them with a sort of tropical climate at all seasons, for the peat
fire is never extinguished, nor allowed to lapse, night or day. At
the same time, there is the drawback of having their eggs always
impregnated with a subtle flavour of peat-smoke, which to some
palates is an insurmountable obstacle to their enjoyment. No wonder
the diminutive creatures lay constantly, such fires are kept up
beneath. Many put almost a creel of peats, of which eight or nine go
to a country cart, on the fire at a time. This is accounted for by
the fact that, notwithstanding, or rather in consequence of their
walls, the damp keeps the huts cold and comfortless. The rain
running off the roofs renders the walls exceedingly damp, although
turfs are placed in the hope of its running over them.

Then the floor is the plain earth; one large bench is
formed of earth, peat, or stone, and is the family lounge, while
occasionally a rude wooden chair is placed for the head of the
family. Indeed, the interior comforts are both few and far between;
at least, as far as the contracted space will allow them to keep
separate.

The live stock, cows, horse, sheep, &c., keep one end
of the dwelling; the hens roost nearer the other bipeds, and nothing
but a small edging of stones divides the different
inhabitants—sometimes not even that.

They say the cows like to have their company and see
the fire, and as they are their great mainstay, they pet them
accordingly; spoil them with fish-bones for sweetmeats, and treat
them with great familiarity generally.

The furniture consists of a large chest or two, and
sometimes a half-box bed; very little further, excepting the pots in
which every article of food in the Lews is conscientiously boiled,
and a few necessary dishes for porridge, fish, and potatoes.

Fifty years ago, there was only one bowl in Carloway
district, and that was at Dalebeg, three miles away. It was sent for
whenever the minister came over from Lochs—as he did every third
Sunday—that they might do honour to their spiritual superior. There
was at that time no spoon with which to eat an egg, and indeed such
an article is a rarity even now. When the minister asked for a
knife, he was told they once had a shoemaker’s knife, but they did
not know where the highly prized article had gone, it having
doubtless been too carefully laid by.

One also hears much here of the bonnet of Dune
Carloway, and on inquiry it turns out to have been a celebrated
Kilmarnock bonnet— one of those everlasting, indestructible
inventions for carrying wool “where the hair ought to grow,” now
famous alike in song and story. This bonnet belonged to the
community, like their moor and their history, and on the rare
occasions when any enterprising member wended his solitary way to
the great city, he was carefully intrusted with its use for the
journey, to sustain the honour and glory of the clachan. How they
managed when two were struck with the same idea of proceeding to
“the capital” we never could clearly make out.

At that time, we are told, an active maidservant
received only 5s. per annum, out of which she had to repair damage
done during her service; while the men-servants were paid from
30s. to 40s., and even from 10s. to 20s. a year. Their wages to-day
may be calculated at an average of £ 3 for maidservants; while men
receive from £8 to £10. We have often hired able-bodied men at
7s. 6d. to 9s. per week, which is yet above the average pay of
labourers in Irish country districts.

The oldest dress we saw was that of a man in
knee-breeches and “hoggars,” or footless stockings, which was said
to represent the former apparel. But in 1790 Buchanan tells us, “The
men wear the short coat, the feilabeg, and the short hose, with
bonnets sewed with black ribbons around their rims, and a slit
behind with the same ribbon in a knot. Their coats are commonly of
tartan, striped with black, red, or some other colour, after a
pattern made, upon a stick, of the yarn.” He adds, as to the women,
“the arrisats are quite laid aside —being the most ancient dress
used. It consisted of one large piece of flannel that reached down
to the shoe, and fastened with clasps below, and the large silver
brooch at the breast, while the whole arm was entirely naked. The
ladies made use of the finer, while common women used coarser, kinds
of flannel, or white woollen cloths.” “The breeid, or curtah, a fine
linen handkerchief fastened about married women’s heads, with a flap
hanging behind their backs, above the guilechan (or small plaid), is
mostly laid aside.” To this we may add, that to-day the unmarried
women wear their own strong hair in a neat roll, as the only
head-dress, coming out in a clean white “mutch” the morning after
their wedding, and never after do we see them without this badge of
“authority.”

One article of the toilet we find in general use in
the present day, according to competent female authorities, and that
is red ink. The close dark house, oppressed with pungent reek, is by
no means favourable to good colour in the cheeks of the young girls,
who thus endeavour, by this simple and cheap cosmetic, to rival the
belles who “painted with cinnabar.”

The first necessity of existence in such a damp
climate is fuel, seeing so little aid to comfort is derivable from
the dwelling. Consequently a winter store, or indeed a store for the
whole year—as the summer is about as destructive to fuel as the
winter—is the first desideratum, never to be overlooked. Fortunately
for the poor people, it is generally plentiful and at hand. Every
cotter is allotted a portion of the adjacent moor, in which to cut
peats sufficient to supply his wants. This always accompanies the
lot as a necessary adjunct. A cotter will cut enough in a day or two
to last him the year through, but peats require to be well dried in
the sun, and, as this depends on the summer, most cotters take care
to have a good supply in advance, for fear of a wet year. After
cutting, they are lifted into ricks, and afterwards accumulated in
still larger stacks. From these last they are carried in as
required. A stack or two is placed at the side of the cot, the
remainder being left on the moor; but, if the winter is severe or
prolonged, they have often to carry creel after creel from the moor
to the house, often a mile or more distant, in most unpleasant
weather.

The peat on the west side is remarkably good—hard,
black, and dense, burning with great heat and intensity. That on the
east is scarcely so good; but that of the country generally is of a
very superior character. The continuous but not ordinarily very
heavy rains, and the slight elevations of the hills, seem
particularly favourable conditions for its growth. This has been
recently calculated to require fifty to a hundred years per foot,
which latter figure may be taken as a rough estimate even for the
black fibrous peat in some localities. These fibres, or roots of
various peat plants, have been observed to communicate with and draw
nourishment from the rocky substratum, being thus supplied from the
soil direct. On the other hand, the spongy brown peat is more
especially a moss, drawing its supplies from the air and the
moisture. The former, the principal one in this country, is
considered by far the slowest of growth; but yet, from its double
sources of supply, may not be so languid in its progress here as is
generally supposed.

The various Druidical remains have been cleared of
peat that had grown over them often to the height of several feet,
in one case six. No one can say for certain how long it is since
these monuments of our ancestral faith have been allowed to weep
unregarded over the peat that hugged their knees; but, if the peat
is a tell-tale, the above calculation of a foot a century would give
but six centuries since the feet of votaries left unvisited the
ancient fane.

Fuel from the moor, meal from their crops, and an
occasional fish from the neighbouring sea, supply food and warmth.

With wool from their own sheep, the women make their
own and their men-folk’s raiment; and ready money is a thing almost
unknown in many families, as it is never required, except in a year
of scarcity. Yes, it is wanted for one article, tobacco — for all
are inveterate smokers of the most atrocious twist.

No visitor can help being struck by the fact that in
the Lews there is an intelligent people still living in the most
primitive of known dwellings—dwellings that carry us back to the
earliest dawn of civilisation—and that men in contact with English
cultivation, many of whom have learned to speak and write the
English tongue, are more degraded than the Africans in their
habitations.

Many of the people of the West are indebted to
civilisation for scarcely anything but tobacco, the Government being
felt only through the want of stimulating drinks—a want never felt
by Highlanders or Islanders in the olden time, so long as the land
would raise a crop of barley.

We were much struck with the healthy appearance of
the children, who are rarely deformed in any way; and as rarely
succeed in concealing their natural proportions. We have seen
half-naked urchins running out bare-limbed among the snow, although
but the minute before “dusting” themselves, like sparrows, among the
warm peat ashes. Yet a common statement among the people is to the
effect that the rising generation cannot compare for physical
strength and stamina, as well as for immunity from disease, with
that now passing or passed away. They account for this by the want
of animal food, which was formerly plentiful among them, but is now
rarely indulged in; also by the use of tea and sugar, which have
replaced the more healthy native beer consumed among them in former
days, and even yet occasionally manufactured surreptitiously for
home use.

Delicate chests and rheumatic pains, the latter
becoming very prevalent in the damp climate, they account for by the
absence of their accustomed home-made whisky, to keep out the
everlasting wet to which they are subjected. Indeed, it is not
unnatural to suppose that their systems are becoming debilitated
from the want of a more stimulating diet to resist the constant
encroachments of a trying climate, to which, from the nature of
their avocations and the condition of their dwellings, they are
continually exposed.

Still, it is an unquestionable fact, vouched for by
the medical practitioners long settled in the country, that
tubercular consumption is never found among natives who have always
remained in the Lews. Strangers have not the same certainty of
immunity, as they may have carried the seeds of the disease along
with them. Natives who have been away for a time, especially girls
on service, not seldom return smitten unto death. So it cannot be
said to be the native constitution, so much as the conditions of
their existence, to which we must look for an explanation. The
quantity of fish oil and marine products devoured may have a
beneficial influence, but, above and before all, our conviction is
that we must look to the healthy effect of the blessed peat-reek,
with which, during half their existence, their lungs are
impregnated. Whenever they leave the health-giving outer atmosphere,
it is to enter into a strongly antiseptic one. And as they are
likewise of a stout habit of body, as a rule, they are peculiarly
fitted for the exigencies of their life.

To see the buxom girls sitting singing on the wet
moor under the moist sky, herding their kine by the day together; or
the well-favoured fisherman, as he “sings in his boat on the bay,”
you understand the advantage of a good suit of fat to supplement
their sound woollen raiment.

It is Communion Sunday. Let us stroll up between the
black houses, with their background of huge peat stacks, and see the
congregation gathering to worship. Strapping, hard-featured men from
Ness, stout “buirdly” men from the East or from Uig, gather in
groups to the meeting. All the houses in the various clachans

have their visitors, making inroads on their stores;
all with the slightest claim to relationship are free and welcome.
So they stream along, not to the church, but, wet or dry, to the
miniature Carnac, spreading out from the pulpit on the moor. What a
crowd of blue umbrellas! Every one has a blue umbrella, be it rain
or shine. Do you think that fisher-lad would sit on the same stone
with Mari, if there was no miniature firmament to slip their heads
under, and make them fancy they were “all the world” to each other?
Would Donald find room for Black Kate on the same boulder, with a
little assistance from his arm, if he could not cover his head like
an ostrich and fancy he was hidden? — hidden, indeed ! See those
three cailliachs enjoying the luxury of a board laid on two squares
of gneiss, and unlimited scandal, with their heads together— would
they dare push their noses under each other’s caps, under the eye of
the “minister,” were it not for the navy blue? “Who has contracted?
Will it be a match? Did they meet first at the Uig communion? Will
her father give her a cow? Was he in luck at Fraserburgh? Look at
Ann sharing her shawl with Haramutch! are they not kind?”—“It’ll pe
a teer market! The trovers have pot all the cheep! The factor ses
non podies must kill a cauf!” And what does the minister say,
Murochy Shawbost, thou great “Professor”?

Indeed! have we professors here? what do they
profess? A great deal more than they can understand, much less
teach; for they profess that widely embracing idea, Christianity,
and yet they will but men were ever the same, though manners do
sometimes prove a little different.

Are you desirous of transacting business with any one
on the opposite end of the island?—wait till the communion—there
they all are, you see! Norman the Horse, so called because he sits
in a cart occasionally, and lets the horse take its time, as he
always does himself; Murdo the Horse, strong as a Clydesdale, who
fell over a cliff only to spoil the sea-beach, and relieved the
tedium of life fighting all comers in Hudson’s Bay; Donald Satan,
who drives like Jehu; and there is our own Donald, with a swing and
a step like a captain of free lances, and a face that makes your
heart jump. Donald Ban, “O fallow fine,” how your laugh rings
through our head!

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